


Everybody Cares, Everybody Understands

by iwaseliteonce



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Accompanying playlist link included, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Record Store, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Lots of music/song/band references, M/M, Mild Language, Musical Elitist Nicole, Professor Waverly, Record Store Workers Rosita and Jeremy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-03-15 22:57:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13623255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwaseliteonce/pseuds/iwaseliteonce
Summary: "Only Waverly can turn me around like this, melt me. She can make me change from a foul-mouthed record store owner to a lovesick puppy with one word, and that deadly moon-eyed grin."(Series- in progress)





	1. Love Will Tear Us Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! Glad to see you again. Here are some quick notes: 
> 
> 1) The rating for this fic is due to the explicit language, and occasionally, the content of the referenced songs.  
> 2) There will not be end chapter notes about the title and music like usual. There will be way too many to cover at the end of each chapter. The first chapter alone has 15 song references!  
> 3) Speaking of songs, the accompanying playlist for this fic will be something you'll see me mention a lot. I'm considering it a huge deal, almost mandatory. I really want the music to drive the story. Every song that is not a throwaway reference will be included in the playlist. You can listen, save and enjoy the music right here: http://spoti.fi/2nWhcIE
> 
> That's all for now. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> \----------------

_“Everybody cares, everybody understands_

_Yes, everybody cares about you_

_Yeah, and whether or not you want them to_

_It's a chemical embrace that kicks you in the head_

_To a pure synthetic sympathy that infuriates you totally_

_And a quiet lie that makes you want to scream and shout”_

_(Everybody Cares, Everybody Understands by Elliott Smith)_

  


Welcome to Chicago, the capital of middle-class fucking America.

Here, it’s all grey skies, hiding your accent, mindless conversations about politics, and struggling to find your _happy place_.

Absolute bullshit.

I sometimes wonder if anyone even has a happy place anymore. Maybe kids; definitely not a hypothetical, stereotypical adult. Not me. Not by a long shot.

Happy places are for warmer lands, for people with futures and dreams. Me- my dream is to find a way to live in or above a record store. A bigger one with a studio space, sure, but still, a record store.

(Hang on, I love this part)

_“When the routine bites hard and ambitions are low_

_And the resentment rides high, but emotions won’t grow_

_And we’re changing our ways, taking different roads_

_Then, love, love will tear us apart again”_

Sidetracked, yet again. Sorry. Where was I?

Oh.

Every single day here is the same- wake, walk, work, repeat. Occasionally, I’ll throw in something out of the ordinary into my routine, like consuming food not wrapped in paper or tin foil! Stunning concept, I know.

Sometimes, I interact with my fellow humans. Occasionally, I can do it without being a condescending jerk about people’s taste in music. If I’m working, you can basically guarantee I’ll be a bit of an… elitist. I’m working today. If I’m honest, I work pretty much every day. That’s just life as the owner of a small record store.

So, it’s Joy Division in my ears, and emblazoned across my chest. I clumsily pulled on my black “Unknown Pleasures” album cover shirt in the dark, ignoring the holes in the collar and bottom hem. I might regret the holey shirt decision later.

Here in Chicago, it’s all about layers. Joy Division shirt, beneath a dark blue and black flannel, beneath my ever-present olive drab military jacket with “Cole” on the name patch. You’ve gotta top things off with a real coat, capable of insulation and wind protection. Mine’s black, just like 87% of my wardrobe. Heavy combat boots I’m too lazy to lace barely stay in place on my feet. They’d probably stay on better if I didn’t trudge around everywhere like a Neanderthal. My hair’s a mess, just like me. Crazy windblown. I always look like I’m fresh out of bed or the shower, because I usually am. Such is life.

Hey, wanna know a secret?

When I’m alone, or bored, or just… me, I keep this running monologue going in my head. It’s almost like my life is a movie no one ever sees. Sometimes, I tell the story as it happens. Real-time commentary. Other times, it’s an escape, a coping mechanism. I can make everything a little better, shinier.

(Less empty)

The wind rushes into a small gap in my jacket collar, and I fight a full body shiver. Shocking fact- it’s really fucking cold outside. The wind pushes me, and my few streetwalking comrades, down the street. We’re slipping along on snow-damp sidewalks, hopefully in the right direction.

I skipped out on a hat today. Rookie move. Instead, I’m hoping my hood and headphones stay over my ears, and somehow keep them warm. Wishful thinking? Maybe. It’s worth the cold sometimes though, to have the sound.

I can’t be without music. The sound that warms my ears, makes my feet move, gets my brain to fire, and do all that smart neuron shit. Music is everything I’ve ever known. It’s the beginning, the end, and every-damn-thing in between.

Music is all there is, and ever will be.

(Dramatic much, Cole?)

My hands burn as I stuff them into the pockets of my faded black jeans. Fruitless, but I hate coat pockets. And gloves. A real live moron, who lives in the land of ice and snow.

Ooh, good song!

(Note to self: force the crew to listen to Immigrant Song at work today.)

Been a while since we’ve spun Led Zeppelin III. Been a while since we’ve played any Led Zeppelin in the shop. May need to implement a rule to prevent this musical travesty in the future.

I didn’t realize the song changed on my phone, until the spoken word break of “No Love Lost” falls away to drums and cymbals, stealing my concentration. Joy Division feels too good to fully notice the subtleties sometimes. I just feel the drums, the guitar, the words. I feel them until there’s nothing left. Until there’s nothing left, unfelt.

(Is unfelt even a word? Note to self: Google the word unfelt later.)

_“You've been seeing things_

_In darkness, not in learning_

_Hoping that the truth will pass”_

Snow slips into a gap in my boots, and my skin _burns_ with cold. My hands still ache, skin red, just _burning_. I curse the wind, the snow, every damn thing that makes the cold stick and stay.

Silence gives way to “Failures”.

_“Wise words and sympathy,_

_Tell the story of our history._

_New strength gives a real touch,_

_Sense and reason make it all too much”_

I catch myself singing aloud, my voice dark in my head as the sound vibrates against my chilled skeleton.

(Stop. No one wants to hear that, Cole. Absolutely no one.)

My feet stop when my mouth does. I’m here.

**Complete Music / Music Complete**

Never trust a New Order fan to name your shop. The name will always be weird. Always. I should have gone with Novelty Music, or Substance Music or something… edgy? Better? Your call.

The door makes that annoying bell sound, and everyone inside stops. I can see my roommate Rosita physically tense. Jeremy shivers, before turning to greet me. I’d say he drew the short straw, but honestly, he greets because he’s the nice one.

“Hey, welcome to- oh, hi, Nic!”

He grins, eyes bright as I slide out of my coat and pull my headphones off of my ears. He tracks my movements as I stow my jacket away, before making easy eye contact.

“Hey, Jer. Ros, I see you survived your date.”

“You shut your stupid single mouth, Haught.”

“Woah. That good, huh? I mean it can’t be worse than...”

My voice drifts as my attention shifts to the music playing overhead. In my store.

**No.**

**NO!**

**Fucking. No.**

“Is- is this fuckin’ Shiny Toy Guns, in my store?! Who in the hell bought this shit, on vinyl? Ros, did you order this? Please tell me you didn’t.”

“‘Course I did. I know how much you love ‘em.” she grins, and I can feel the sarcastic bite of the words dig into my skin.

“Fuck. You.” I stare, eyes dark, anger flooding into my system like an oncoming storm.

We’re better than Shiny Toy Guns here. Way better. I only play records like this when my best friend, Waverly, is in the store. I’d play any record for her, no matter how much it makes my jaw hurt from clenching it shut to avoid saying what’s actually in my head.

“Oh, baby, you wish I’d fuck you.” Rosita slides her finger along my shirt collar, making me shiver in disgust when she barely grazes the skin just above my collarbone. I shove her back, laughing loudly when my hands come in contact with her baseball shirt.

“A Gun N’ Roses shirt, Ros. Really? What are you, a hair band holdout? Don’t answer that. Just turn this ‘Oh, Mickey, you’re so fine’ wannabe bullshit off. Right. Fuckin’. Now.”

“Language, Nicky. You’re supposed to be a business professional.”

“The Music Tech and Business degrees on my wall say I’m pretty damn professional.”

“Yeah yeah. We get it, Nic, you went to college. All high and mighty, holier-than-thou, Nicky, going to THE Columbia College… right down the fuckin’ street.”

I sigh. She has a point. I’ve barely left the city in my thirty years of existence. I’ve always been a homebody, preferring to stay in my city I know above all else.

Chicago is… home. It’s seeped into my bloodstream, my pores, my lungs. I don’t think I could breathe in another city, not deeply. I couldn’t live without my hands constantly itching, and my fingers digging for more. More volume and noise, more cars and the “L”, more pizza and beer, more everything.

The door chimes. Jeremy greets quietly and smiles an oddly pained smile. Rosita steps out from behind the counter to help the tall man with the close-trimmed beard and horn-rimmed glasses.

We have a rule here- your type, your sale. We even have a sign and chart in the back.

  * Jeremy takes the geeky guys.
  * Rosita takes the hipsters, male, female, non-binary. If you can rock a scarf and horn rims, Rosita will make sure you find _everything you need_.
  * I take… a lot of shit and not quite enough pay. Occasionally, a pretty girl who looks at Smiths records like freshly unearthed treasures.



Today though, I leave Shiny Toy Guns playing, volume turned down low. Why? Because I actually like the next song, Blown Away. The whole Season of Poison record is pretty good.

**_Rosita can never know._ **

\----------------

The store’s slow. Of course, it is.

Kids don’t buy much vinyl these days. Not unless it’s Ed Sheeran or something. Adults are trying to catch up on trends and to learn the music their kids gush about at the dinner table. Or in the car, in front of the TV, wherever your family bonding takes place.

Record stores are dying. I know that, I’m painfully aware. They have been for years.

I just refuse to let mine die, to bury it, along with the ashes of my musical elitist dreams. It took a long damn time to make this place real. To fill the walls, shelves, bins, and bookcases I built with my own hands, with records and CDs. I even have some cassette tapes, for the really old school music buffs. You never know, right?

I want this to be someone else’s _place_ , too. The place that makes them feel better, the place where they can finally _breathe_ and feel like they’re a little closer to something like… home. I keep the shop open because it’s my place. It’s Jeremy and Rosita’s place, too. I just hope it feels like someone’s else’s place, too. One day.  

I step into the back office and rifle through my personal record collection. My gaze falls on the shadowy, black and white album cover of Futures by Jimmy Eat World.

Perfect.

I carefully carry the record to the sound system we keep locked up, line up the needle with the correct groove, and start with the opening track. I’m of the opinion that no record should play in my store unless the whole thing can play through without skipping Track 2, or 3, or 7. No skips, or sudden scratches to try and move past a weaker song. If your album isn’t great as a whole, then I’ll save it for personal time and taste, or just buy the singles. I have a fair amount of EP’s and singles hidden around the store, for those records that don’t make the cut. Even more at home, along with my personal alphabetically, then chronologically organized record collection.

(Sidetracked earlier, off on a tangent now. Smooth, Haught.)

We have to lock the turntable away, so not just any dude with an opinion can drop an Iron and Wine record, and instantly bum out my entire store. We only resort to Iron and Wine, Nick Cave, and Bright Eyes to get people to leave.

Record Store Pro Tip- Always save the bummers for closing time. Or, just play Semisonic’s Closing Time. Whatever.

My crew, we play the same game every day. We debate the best song or record to get people to leave, and play the winner the last 10-30 minutes of the working day. If your pick works and gets people to head out on time, you win a prize.

Sometimes, it’s a pizza.

Sometimes, it’s a sticker or pin.

Sometimes, it’s a rare international import EP from an obscure band.

(Sometimes, it’s a hug. Everyone complains when the prize is a hug. Which sucks, because I’m super great at hugs! I think.)

Tonight’s bummer jam is chosen hours ahead of schedule: Whatever (Folk Song in C) by Elliott Smith.

It barely beat out Bitter Sweet Symphony by the Verve. I talked Rosita out of bittersweet nightmares with this point: “This isn’t a high school graduation, Ros. The nostalgia alone will keep people in the store. We gotta bum ‘em out, so they’ll go home.”

Jeremy nodded in agreement, looking away as his eyes drifted and locked onto the butt of a new male customer. I can’t help but shake my head. I work with two of the biggest dorks on the entire planet, for sure in the whole of the Chicago area.

The song changes to Just Tonight at the same moment the door chimes. Jeremy repeats his usual greeting, all while never moving to lift his gaze from the male butt that has completely entranced him. Rosita chuckles quietly, and starts to move out from behind the counter.

For the first time today, I’m feeling a pull to actually help my customers. It’s my shop, I should occasionally do my damn job.

I shake my head at her and slide out from behind the counter. As I approach the obviously deadset woman, I’m careful to make some noise, while simultaneously slapping my patented work smile onto my lips, knowing it’ll crater dimples into my cheeks.

“Hey there. Can I help ya find anything?”

I barely catch half-hearted words behind the curtain of brunette hair hiding her face from view as she leans over a carefully organized stack of CDs.

“Yeah, I guess. I’m looking for a CD.”

“Well then, you’ve come to the right place.” I make my smile wider, trying to garner her attention. “Do you know the band or the album title?”

“No. It was popular when I was younger. I remember the music video, and was hoping- Nope, I can’t do this. I’m sorry, but this music is really awful. Can you change it to something… better?”

_Record scratch_ (in my head).

I can hear Rosita hiss as she drags in a gasp of air between her teeth, and feel Jeremy’s eyes snap to my face. I can feel my jaw tighten, and the taste in my mouth goes metallic. No one has ever asked me to change the music in my own store. I don’t allow that, _ever_ . Not in my car, not in my house, and sure as _hell_ not in my store.

“I, uh… sure. Rosita, will you put on Echo & the Bunnymen, please?”

“S-sure thing, boss.”

I turn back to the customer, barely able to force the fake smile back on my face. Everything feels tight and false. I am just barely keeping it together, just trying to get this woman out of my store as soon as possible.

“There we go. So, you remember the music video. Can you describe it?”

“Men in leather jackets and pants. There are sheep and explosions, so Ireland? They’re in a lighthouse, and then a cave, and then on some rocks. The lead guy is in a yellow jacket. He sings about prayer and keeps holding his arms out like he’s Jesus on the cross or something.”

I choke back a laugh, trying to keep my face neutral. I know _exactly_ what song she’s talking about.

“You mean With Arms Wide Open, by Creed?”

“Yes! I want to buy that. Do you have it?”

Jesus, people still listen to Creed. I can feel my grin mutate into something a little more sinister. This is going to be the highlight of my day. Operation Embarrass the Creed Fan is a go.

“We definitely don’t have anything by Creed, no. Tell ya what though, why don’t you head on down to the mall? Then, you can pick up the latest *NSYNC CD as a Creed companion record. You seem like a Dirty Pop kind of girl. I bet if you play the two CD’s simultaneously, a hellhole will open, and swallow up the whole damn city. ”

Her face morphs into one of barely controlled anger. Jackpot.

“Hey, before you go- do me a favor. While you’re at FYE, keep an eye out for boy bands on vinyl. If they have one, any of them, please come back and tell me. I’ll piss my pants laughing while I sink into the Hellmouth you’ve single-handedly created with your musical stupidity.”

The woman hisses at me, eyes now dark and angry. She’s stuttering, obviously struggling to find the most venomous thing she can shout at me. I contain the chuckle sitting just behind my teeth, instead keeping an exaggerated grin on my face.

“You asshole! My sister told me you’d help me! You’re supposed to be nice! The customer is always right! Why can’t you be nice, and actually help me?”

“Oh, I helped you a ton. The band is Creed, the song is With Arms Wide Open, the album is Human Clay. I can’t hand you a CD I don’t have though, and I refuse to order that crap. When you leave and inevitably never return, it’ll sit on my shelf for years. Hell, that CD will outlive the store, and me.”

“What is your problem? Are you one of those elitist butch girls, that has to rub your useless knowledge in everyone’s face?”

“Nope, I just have taste, and only carry options people with brains will buy. Who’s your sister, by the way?”

Three things happen at once: the door chimes, Waverly Earp steps into my store, and Lips Like Sugar starts playing in and over my head. Waverly walks toward me with an apologetic half-smile on her lips. More like-

_“She floats like a swan_

_Grace on the water_

_Lips like sugar, lips like sugar_

_Just when you think you've caught her_

_She glides across the water”_

“Waverly.” Saying her name makes me soften. It always does. I can feel the tension and smartass exterior I’ve been exhibiting melt away. The anger is gone, all but evaporated in an instant.

“This is your friend?! I thought you said she was nice! What the hell, Waverly?”

I can feel the moment Waverly reaches my side, her pinky sliding across the side of my fist-tight left hand. I can actually _feel_ the moment her eyes graze my profile. I gladly give in to the wave of warmth that overtakes me as she quietly responds.

“Cole, meet my sister, Willa. Willa, Nicole.” Waverly is focusing on me now, turning her body toward me, and away from her fuming older sister. Her eyes are so soft, her gaze so gentle, that I feel a little unworthy, and out of place. “I assume she described the stupid music video, you knew the song instantly, and proceeded to make a series of smartass comments about her taste in late 90’s music?”

I laugh loudly. How can I not? Waverly knows me too well.

“She was a total _asshole_ , that’s what happened. Why the hell did you send me here?”

“When you ask a stupid question, you deserve a smart ass answer, Willa. Plus, I’m having dinner with Cole later. Might as well hang out at the shop, head out with her after it closes.”

Willa throws her hands in the air, shoving past me as she stomps toward the door. Rosita giggles loudly behind the counter, Jeremy hasn’t moved an inch.

“Nice to meet you, Willa. Have fun at FYE!”

Waverly hip-checks me playfully, rolling her eyes as she steps forward and into my waiting arms for a hug. I can feel my chest warm at the contact, as I revel in the slight squeeze around my torso. I’ve missed the way this feels, having Waverly close. I sigh as she steps back, hand automatically taking mine, so she can absentmindedly play with my fingers.

“Hey ya, Wave. How was your class?”

“Hi back, Cole. Class, huh? You don’t wanna talk about completely embarrassing my sister first?”

“Wait, that was your sister?” I respond with feigned shock, easily taking the light slap to my chest in retaliation. “Not much to say. Her taste in music sucks. Why didn’t you just send her to FYE or something?”

“Come on, Cole. You know as well as me that Willa needed to be taken down a peg.”

“I, uh, think I accomplished that.”

Waverly laughs, and the sound fills the store. She lifts my hand, preparing to deploy her patented dramatic pullback move. I break her routine by lifting our entwined hands, and spinning her two times in an unexpected dance. She giggles as she spins, then slides back into me effortlessly, hands splayed open in full contact with my chest and collarbone.

I can see Rosita’s smirk out of the corner of my eye, her head shaking as she continues to stack CDs in their bins. Jeremy grins widely as he stocks the new vinyl, eyes occasionally flicking to meet mine.

They both know. They’ve always known that I have major feelings for Waverly, feelings I quietly hope she’ll one day return. Only Waverly can turn me around like this, melt me. She can make me change from a foul-mouthed record store owner to a lovesick puppy with one word, and that deadly moon-eyed grin. She’s always been able to, ever since we first met at Columbia College over a decade ago.

One day, maybe I can make her melt, too.

The song overhead changes to Elliott Smith, but it’s a different song than we’d agreed upon. Rosita went with Say Yes instead. I can feel my stomach drop as the acoustic guitar and vocals fill the room. Rosita catches my eye, and gives me the softest smile she’s capable of over Waverly’s shoulder.

_“I’m in love with the world_

_Through the eyes of a girl_

_Who’s still around, the morning after”_

“We’re closin’ soon. You still up for dinner and that art exhibit?”

“Course I am, Cole. I’ve been excited about it for days!”

“Good. That’s… good. I’ll just grab my coat. You need an extra scarf or anything?”

“Oh! Um, gloves and a scarf, yeah. I left mine at home.”

“No problem, be right back.”

I trudge to my office, trying to convince my heart to slide back down my esophagus, and into my chest where it belongs. My coat is laying across an old, overstuffed yellow chair in the corner. I pull it on messily, and fight internally to steady my anxious breaths. Waverly grins at me through the big office window as I slide open my bottom left desk drawer and pull out a pair of black fingerless gloves with a pull-down mitten covering, and a yellow and black striped scarf. I can see her eyes light up at the sight of my old scarf, which has become hers over the years.

Anything that Waverly wants, she gets.

I slide the drawer closed, flip off the overhead lights, and turn off the turntable carefully. The store feels strange without music playing. It’s a little like the silence after flipping the switch on a heart monitor; everything feels empty and wrong.

Jeremy and Rosita split up, one checking that the front door is locked, while the other turns off the rainbow-colored neon open sign. We say their quiet good nights and the pair head out the employee entrance.

Waverly is beside me before I can catch my breath, excitedly taking the gloves and scarf from my unsure hands. She slips into my clothes as if it’s second nature. In reality, it probably is. The mitten part is left open, so Waverly’s warm fingers can lace with mine. She whispers she’s ready into my jacket covered shouldre, yet I still shiver as if her lips have touched my exposed skin. Nodding wordlessly, I gently lead her out the back of my store.

As we walk down the street, hand in hand, Waverly swings our arms goofily and talks excitedly about the little Italian restaurant she’s been waiting to try. My heart pulls hard in my chest when I realize she’s been waiting for us to go together. _Waiting for me._

As we walk hand in hand, I remind myself of my ancient, unspoken mantra:

_Waverly isn’t yours_

_Waverly isn’t yours_

_Waverly isn’t yours_

Waverly Earp doesn’t even belong to the universe.

She belongs to no one, least of all, me.

As we walk, as I fight to not live for the way her fingers feel laced with mine, I sing Elliott Smith in my head. I have to finish Say Yes, so it won’t haunt me. I can’t stand to leave a song unfinished.

 

_“Crooked spin can’t come to rest_

_I’m damaged bad at best_

_She’ll decide what she wants_

_I’ll probably be the last to know_

_No one says until it shows, see how it is_

_They want you, or they don’t, say yes_

_I’m in love with the world_

_Through the eyes of a girl_

_Who’s still around, the morning after”_

 


	2. Wake With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're following along via the playlist, you'll want to start at Wake with You by Chuck Ragan: http://spoti.fi/2nWhcIE

_ “Well I came here to wake with you at dawn _

_ With no understanding of any wrong _

_ To lay with you for endless nights _

_ Trade the wreckage for the lights _

_ Hazel eyes, strong willed brown hair girl _

 

_ So hold tight, to break free _

_ Well you've got, all of me _

_ If you want it that way _

_ Take me in and Ill be good to you _

_ Baby, do my damnedest to make mistakes but once” _

_ (Wake With You- Chuck Ragan) _

 

I’ve always housed… something for Waverly. It lives beneath my skin, nestled safely just behind my rib cage, inches from my heart. Something kind of like,  _ feelings _ . 

 

It feels real to me. Alive and sing-song bright. Soft, fluttery, and melodious; like a…

**a** **birdhouse in my soul.**

_ Fuck.  _ The way I feel for Waverly is a song by They Might Be Giants. Of course, it is.

It’s true though. God, it’s always been true. She makes things flutter in my stomach, in my chest. She makes me feel so many things, so many ways. Every damn time she smiles that smile or unknowingly plays with my fingers, the cage rattles and smacks against my ribs.

I’m a big, mushy puddle of puppy for Waverly Earp, and she doesn’t even know.

 

The definition of torture is having Waverly in my bed. She’s here, all sleep-warm and messily beautiful. She’s here, so close, within reach, but she’s not mine. I don’t have her. I don’t know her the way I want to. Not a single inch of her is mine. I feel wrong even looking at her while she sleeps. Like my eyes are taking advantage of the moment. I can’t look away though.

She’s sleeping off layers of pasta, alcohol, chocolate, and excitement in my bed, beneath my sheets and heavy comforter. She’s cuddled up in my favorite Third Eye Blind baseball shirt from their most recent tour, another item of clothing that’s become more hers than mine. 

(What’s mine is actually hers, heart included.)

Her lips keep grazing my pillow. Why can’t they be pressed to mine?

FUCK. I’m in trouble. Let’s be honest though- I have been for years. Big trouble.

Torture, thine name is Waverly.

I drag myself out of the plush chair in the corner of my bedroom, forcing my eyes away from the girl in my bed. The girl I could easily love if given a chance.  _ THE girl. _

I need coffee, maybe a cold shower.

As I move to sneak out of the bedroom, Waverly sighs. My head turns, and I regret the breakneck movement instantly. She shifts and reaches out her hand, seeking warmth she can’t quite find. In her sleepy state, she seems to settles for my pillow, pulling it close to her chest and curling her body around it. The unconscious smile and little sound of contentment that follow awaken the previously quiet bird living in my chest. I swear I can taste my own heart on my tongue in that moment. Everything tingles and hurts, like pins and needles.

Waverly Earp is slowly killing me, yet I welcome it.

I choke back every word and emotion digging into the space behind my teeth and again move slip out of the room. A light brown blur zooms past me the moment the door opens and heads straight for the bed.

“Wrigley, no!” I hiss through grit teeth, trying to convince my goofy German Shepherd-Lab mix to come with me and leave Waverly alone. He’s not having it. Wrigley is just as enamored with Waverly as I am, and this is his chance. He leaps onto the bed and wiggles his body onto my pillow occupied moments before, tail and tongue wagging excitedly.

“Mmm, hey, Wrig,” Waverly whispers in her sleep-darkened voice. “You trying to be my cuddle buddy? Cole’s not gonna like that.”

“Oh, I definitely don’t,” I reply, finally making myself known. I chuckle lightly when Waverly shifts to meet my eye. “Wrig, get down, ya goof.”

Wrigley huffs, slinking out of Waverly’s grasp and dropping to the floor by my feet. He tucks his head between his paws, safely hidden from my hard glare. He huffs and seems to almost pout in Waverly’s general direction. He can’t pull away easily either. Can’t blame you, buddy.

“Morning, Cole.” 

 

Waverly gives me a tired smile as she sits up, head now resting against the wooden headboard I built last summer. The bird in my chest flaps its wings, and I fight internally to keep it from singing.

 

“Hey. Sorry about the big guy. He burst in while I was headin’ to make coffee.”

“S’okay, I forgive him. You were gonna make me coffee, too, right?”

“Well, I’m not an idiot. So, yeah.”

She giggles, actually giggles, and I can feel it in my toes. 

 

(I’m fucked, totally fucked, _entirely_ _fucked_.)

“I’m just gonna… Is, um, is it okay if Wrig stays with you?”

“Mhm. You know if he stays with me, he’s gonna end up joining me in this big bed. Are you okay with that?”

“Well, I guess I have to be.”

“Good, ‘cause I’m calling him up here as soon as you leave. Now, go make me coffee, so I can have puppy cuddles.”

“Oh, I see how it is. Well, I guess I’ll go make your coffee. You enjoy your emotional affair with my dog.”

“Oh, I fully intend to.” Her over exaggerated grin breaks my heart all over again.

When I return, Wrigley is curled up in Waverly’s lap, tail thumping against the sheets. Waverly is smiling, her eyes and teeth so bright, it’s near-blinding. She lifts her gaze at the scent of fresh coffee, expression shifting to the moon-eyed one that burns a hole through my skin. I flash her a weak smile, keeping the words in my mouth at bay. Warm fingers graze mine as I hand over the oversized coffee mug with baby blue AT-AT’s and gold hearts along the sides. My dorky Star Wars mug is Waverly’s favorite, the one I can’t use without her. I turn to pad across the room, to take residence in my favorite chair.

“Huh-uh, no, c’mere.”

Record scratch. Everything stops. I can taste bile, everything gets hazy. 

 

Shit. 

“Did, uh, did I do somethin’ wrong?”

“What? No, I just… I didn’t realize... just come here. Please?”

I put down my coffee mug, and walk back to her nervously, hands stuffed in the pockets of my sweatpants. I feel so exposed in a black tank top and sports bra, suddenly afraid she can actually see my heart pounding in my chest. Annie Lennox is singing “17 Again” in my head. Everything feels like a fog of nerves and ballads. 

 

Waverly’s gaze softens as her eyes drift to my right arm. Her fingers play along with my skin, tracing the different drawings that make up my full sleeve tattoo. It’s a mix of music, and Chicago; the little things that make me happy. She starts a fresh path- gently brushing a small geometric guitar near my wrist, and the dark, shadowy piano keys atop my forearm. She traces the line art vinyl record, then scrapes her nails along the top of heavily detailed headphones and gramophone just below my elbow. I shiver and hiss at the touch, struggling to stop myself from squirming over her appraising gaze. Her fingers move again, tracking along the shiny looking Cloud Gate and iconic red Wrigley Field on the inside of my bicep, drifting across a sketch of the Chicago skyline. The gentleness she shows draws fresh goosebumps to the surface of my skin. Her fingers stall atop the sketched broken record on my deltoid. She knows its twin rests on my other shoulder. She’s seen the twin records hundreds of times over the years. Still, her hands always reach to trace the pattern of the grooves in the black vinyl. 

 

She touches my skin over and over again, and can I feel my head tilt in confusion. 

“Realized I’ve never seen the whole thing. Not since you added to it. You always wear short sleeves, and I just- I saw the beginnings of this.” Her fingers gently move the straps aside, to partly expose the back of my shoulder. I twitch, and fight to not slink away. “Can I… will you show me?”

I nod slowly, gulping to pull my voice back from the oblivion of my throat.

“I...I’ll need to take this off. So you can see them.”

“Hey, you don’t have to. I can just-”

“No, it’s fine. Just, um…”

 

The room is too quiet with the turntable off, and my sound system powered down. The silence makes it worse somehow. It makes the way Waverly is admiring my skin feel that much heavier.

My hands finally get the signal to move, and I peel the tank top away from my skin. The bird in my chest is fluttering, shifting under my ribs. I can only hope Waverly doesn’t hear the movement, the creak of my rib cage. I turn away from her, making sure to tighten the muscles in my abdomen and back as I move. Then, the fingers are back, touching the hidden part of the sleeve. My muscles flex instinctually, trying to impress, to draw the eye of the stunning girl on my bed. 

An upright piano graces the space between my shoulder blades, drawn into flesh from an almost unsettling surreal perspective. The piano inked onto my skin is the same one I grew up with, an antique that’s moved with me, out of my childhood home, and into various apartments. It’s old and wooden, the keys are a little faded as they show their age. 

 

There’s only one glaring difference- the upright on my back is on fire. It’s burning alive, and the destruction is beautiful. I used to dream of setting the instrument I was required to learn alight, to end the days and hours of repetition. Then, one day, I loved it. I finally loved something, and it changed my entire life.

“It’s so… Cole, it’s beautiful. I can’t believe I didn’t-”

“S’okay. No one’s ever really seen it. That one... it’s mine, you know?”

“This is the piano, right? The one from your old house, that used to sit in the living room?”

“That one, yeah.”

“Well, whoever did this, it’s remarkable. I love it, really love it.” Her voice changes, and my heart rate increases. “You should show it off sometime. I mean, you’re flexing, right?. Look at you. Who knew there was so much muscle under those band shirts?”

“Are- are you trying to convince me to take my shirt off more often, Wave?”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t complain. Look at you- you’re practically… do you have any body fat?”

“Can we… I should go.” I say quietly, pulling my tank top back over my head “I just, I need to head to the store for a while. Boss stuff to do, ya know. Wrig and I have work to do.”

 

I’m moving so quickly, my head spins. Waverly’s hand falls from my skin, and all of the warmth left in the world is gone instantly.

 

“Oh. Okay, I’ll head home, I guess.” Her hand is at my wrist, pulling me back into the undertow that is Waverly. She’s a riptide I can’t escape. “Hey. Thanks for letting me stay, Cole.”

“Anytime, Wave. You know that. You can sta— drink your coffee, enjoy the quiet . You still have a key, yeah?”

“Mhm, in my bag.”

“Cool, just lock up when you leave. I’ll, uh, I’ll see you later.”

 

I’m moving too fast for Waverly to get a word in. Wrigley follows close behind, ready for a walk and some time in the store. I can feel the burn of Waverly’s gaze as I tug on a hoodie and coat haphazardly. Too fast, but I have to leave. I have to get away, before my skin catches fire. 

 

I pull the door closed, tug a black winter hat down over my ears, and clip Wrigley into his leash. The moment I step outside, I suck in a gasping breath. 

 

The bird is chirping in my chest, singing its little song to remind me that Waverly Earp is danger. The birdhouse in my soul houses a canary in a coal mine. 

 

Maybe I’ll learn to listen to the damned thing. 

 

\----------------

_ “She took your hand in a winter breeze _

_ She laid the pillow for your bended knee _

_ She gave you hope instead of doubt _

_ She's somebody else's baby now _

_ She's got a way of breaking you down again and again and again _

_ 'Cause it just kills you that she still wants to be your friend” _

Even my turntable is against me, taunting me with the feelings I’ll never speak aloud to their intended target. I don’t remember starting The Damnwells self-titled record now playing overhead. Hell, I barely remember the walk here. I barely recall stumbling into my office with the intent to work on payroll and weekly orders. Or, that’s what I hope it looks like I’m doing. In reality, I’m trying to find a way to make the way my skin tingles stop. I’m trying to choke down every feeling I have for the girl who’s not in love with me. I’m trying to pretend I don’t feel  _ everything _ . 

“Stupid. So fucking stupid.”

 

I’m moments from throwing my chair through the large office window, from tearing posters from the walls, and destroying everything I’ve built. Why? So I can feel  _ something _ .  _ Anything else _ . Anything besides the familiar sting that follows having Waverly close, touching me, making me feel things I can’t. 

 

It all hits me like a ton of bricks- I ran. 

I actually ran from Waverly Earp, the world’s only living, breathing ball of sunshine. 

I ran away, like she’s some sort of supervillain I don’t have the stamina or experience to face. 

 

I ran like a fucking coward. 

 

“Fuck!” I yell to no one, dropping my head into my hands as I shake uncontrollably in my seat. 

 

Wrigley whimpers, lifting himself from the floor to rest his head on the arm of my well-worn chair. His cool nose seeks out my trembling hand, and tries to lift it to rest atop his snout for scratches and pets. He’s trying, and I’m giving him nothing. I don’t want his dog pity. I don’t want anyone’s pity. 

 

I don’t anyone to see me like this- cracked a little more than I was the night before.

 

If I were younger, I’d drink Waverly gone. I’d drown every awkward moment and stupid feeling in a sea of alcohol, cigarette smoke and bad decisions. I’d do it all while silently hoping I don’t get a second chance, that I won’t be able to come up for a gasp of air. 

 

Nowadays, I’m a little too grown up for that self-destructive bullshit. Just barely. The cigarette smoking may still happen though. I could use a good burn in my chest, one I can control. 

 

I don’t throw my chair, to tears down posters. 

I don’t destroy my store. 

I don’t drink until I’m numb. 

I don’t really do anything.    
I respond almost stoically. 

 

Instead of leaving piles of self-destruction and ash in my wake, I pull the phone cord from the wall, and silence my vibrating iPhone. I tug off my stupid winter hat and coat, and toss them across the chair. I gently lift the needle from The Damnwells record, and turn off the sound system. I turn off the office lights. I systematically remove every comfort I have left, leaving myself in silence, in darkness. 

 

My legs carry me to the very back of the store. I feel along the back wall for the only locked door, and insert the key only I have. The lights click on with a hum, and I feel my shoulder drop in a quick release of tension. 

 

The space is carefully organized- rows of white, hand built bookcases, specifically made to hold records. My records. 

 

Everyone thinks I keep all of the good stuff at home. They’re wrong. It’s all here, safely locked away and temperature controlled in  _ my  _ space. Each record is encased in a protective plastic covering, meticulously placed in alphabetical order by artist, then chronological order for each artist. 

 

Three of the four walls are covered in frames, displaying rows of signed posters, album covers, setlists and CD’s. Guitar picks are kept in a tall Mason jar on a small side table, souvenirs of shows long past. An old acoustic guitar rests on a stand in the corner, covered in the messy Sharpie signatures of my Columbia College music school classmates. 

 

One wall, though, one wall is painted dark blue, instead of concrete grey. The accent wall, the space I treasure most. Two shadowboxes hang here, each containing one black and one white piano key, still connected by the backing. The keys came from a flood-destroyed piano belonging to the Nashville Symphony. They proudly display the silver Sharpie signatures of Diana Krall and Ben Folds for all (or just me) to see. 

 

My upright piano is pushed against the dark blue wall just beneath the shadowboxes. No one knows it’s here now. Not even Waverly. As far I know, my non-best friends have no idea I even  _ like _ the piano, let alone play it. 

 

I run my fingers along the old bench, before pulling it away from its resting place under the keys. I lift the fallboard and sigh. It’s a little like lifting my rib cage at the hinge, and exposing my insides. Somehow, the simple action feels  _ right _ . I need this, need to play, now more than ever.

 

My hands graze the keys, testing, ensuring I tuned my love recently. I delicately press down Middle C, and the note vibrates and rings perfectly. 

 

The piano is in tune. At least something is...

 

I don’t question what song will escape my fingers, I just let them move across the keys and find a home there. They move and glide, press and lift effortlessly. 

 

I’ve never been much of a musician, not really. I can’t play the guitar, or bass, or drums. I can’t play a single wind or string instrument to save my life. The piano though, that I can do. I know the keys, the notes and sounds they produce, better than I know myself. The piano is something I understand, because I’m a fucking mess, but it is always the same. Even when it’s a little out of tune or left untouched for years, it’s still the same. It’s reliable, and safe. It’s  _ home _ . 

 

It takes me a few minutes to recognize the song my hands chose. I know the lyrics. “Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me” by The Smiths drips from of my fingers like paint on canvas. The notes fills the air, and I let myself  _ breathe _ again. 

 

I breathe, and let the words fall from my lips. 

 

_ “Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me  _

_ No hope, no harm  _

_ Just another false alarm  _

_ Last night I felt real arms around me  _

_ No hope, no harm  _

_ Just another false alarm  _

_ So, tell me how long before the last one?  _

_ And tell me how long before the right one?  _

_ The story is old - I know, but it goes on  _

_ The story is old - I know, but it goes on  _

_ Oh, goes on, and on  _

_ Oh, goes on, and on“ _

 

I play and sing the same words on repeat, until I can’t stand the song of my own heart any longer. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I brought the angst so close to Valentine's Day. There's a reason, I promise. 
> 
> Feel free to yell at me, or not. @iwaseliteonce


	3. Our Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first song representing this chapter is Our Song by The Spill Canvas, if you'd like to follow along.  
> Spotify Link: http://spoti.fi/2nWhcIE

_ “Be kind when you rewind the story of the two of us _

_ Sometimes you wish it was a little more mysterious _

_ When you look at me with your cinematic eyes _

_ I wanna play the part, but I'm messing up the lines _

_ We never were, We'll never be _

_ Strangers kissing in the pouring rain _

_ Chasing after your leaving train _

_ But, we know, that's not how our song goes” _

  
  


I can’t go home. Not to a bed that smells like Waverly. She smells too much like sweetness and good. Too much like… hope.  

 

I was so brash and stupidly hopeful, I wonder how I’m still upright. Eventually, my spine will bend and creek and give, until it finally cracks. Until I finally shatter into a million tiny pieces of hopefulness and plans. 

 

Waverly Earp will break me one day. It’s only a matter of time. 

 

The lights are still off. My office is lit by a tiny desk lamp, making the room a faded, dirty yellow. My eyes feel ancient in a room built around shadow and fools gold. I can’t stand the idea of daylight, or sunshine, or ever seeing the sky again. 

 

I can’t bring myself to face the girl I want, the girl I desire. 

 

Not  _ the girl.  _

 

Instead, I curl up in the too small armchair, place my blackout Converse covered heels on my desk, and pull a faded black Deftones baseball cap down low over my eyes. 

 

There’s no music playing. No song on the planet feels right. They don’t hurt enough. I can barely remember what music sounds like, I’m just... too numb. 

 

I pull my cap down even lower, sink into a chair not built for sleep, and try to forget how warm Waverly’s hands feel on my exposed skin. I try to forget how easy it is to care for her, how good it feels when her smile warms the entire damn room. 

 

I try to forget everything I’ve ever felt for the woman so many leagues above me, I should have drowned by now. 

 

\----------------

 

I don’t get a moment of rest, not really. I just, can’t. 

 

I’m not sure I even remember how to nap or sleep without dreaming. I can’t stand my own dreams anymore. They’re  _ always _ about her. How her smile brightens up my stupid existence, the way her laugh somehow warms my soul when it’s colder and hardening, that a simple touch from her can  _ ground me _ . 

 

Elliott Smith was right- Everything Reminds Me Of Her. 

 

_ Everything.  _

 

Circa Survive is screaming overhead when Rosita and Jeremy slip into the store through the employee entrance. I can almost feel their eyes meeting, eyebrows raised in confusion, concern evident. I was scheduled to open up this morning. It’s now 2 pm, and the store is still dark. The open sign is off and unplugged. The sounds in the air mean I’m not spinning a record like usual. I’ve instead chosen a carefully crafted Spotify playlist, titled wallowwallowedwallowing.

 

_ “I can't get started from the part where I left off yesterday _

_ Should've spent my time a little wiser _

_ I sat alone guilty as sin waiting for words to come _

_ From out of my head still making sense to anyone _

_ I can't wait to understand the reason, I have yet to translate _

_ Any meaning besides, it's not worth it to try“ _

“Um, Nic, are you okay?”

“Fine, Jer. Can we just open this place up? Hell, I’m ready to close down.”

“Nic, the store’s not even open yet.” Rosta scoffs, eyes narrowing.

“I’m aware, Ros. Thanks for reminding me how to tell if my own damn store is open though. I almost forgot.”

“Jesus, Nic. Sarcasm much? I mean, seriously, what the-”

“Fuck  _ off _ ! Just open the damn door, turn on the bright-ass lights, and do your job, Rosita! For once, just shut the fuck up, and do what I pay you to do!”

 

My roommate takes a step back, eyes wide and full of hurt. I don’t acknowledge it, or her for that matter. I’m too far gone, too broken. I’m done.

 

“I’ll be in my office. Paperwork. Don’t need me.”

 

Jeremy and Rosita watch in confusion as I step into my office and slam the door shut. Wrigley jolts, jumping to his feet to ensure my safety. He only relaxes once I’ve slumped into the worn desk chair with an annoyed groan. 

 

The song changes to Cold Beer and Cigarettes by David Bazan. I can actually taste the irritated sigh that escapes Rosita’s lips at the opening lines. 

 

_ “A white ghost, making his way up the west coast _

_ Trying to focus his high hopes on a vagina or two _

_ He's taking his chances” _

 

She’s never been one for songs that sing about chasing vaginas. 

Pretty ironic, don’t you think? 

 

\----------------

 

Rosita forces my office door open a whole hour later, arms immediately folding in defiance as she leans against the doorframe. She looks down at the sleepy Wrigley, a soft smile crossing her lips. Then, those eyes meet my profile, and all of the warmth evaporates. 

 

“Haught, you’ve got a visitor. Can you stop acting like a jackass long enough to say hi?”

“Depends,” I respond, swiveling in my chair as I continue to stare at the ceiling. “Who is it?”

“Cute drummer Meg. She asked about you.”

“Yeah, just give me a sec.”

“Why? You gonna freshen up for her?”

“Kindly fuck off, Ros. Go do something worth your paycheck.”

“Fine. Just… don’t be a dick to one of the few people who somehow continue to tolerate you. There aren’t many of us left.”

 

She leaves the door wide open, stomping out of the room with a huff. I hold my head in my hands for a moment, wiping at my face messily to try and force a smile on my face, mostly for Meg. 

 

Meg is one of the few regulars at Complete Music Music Complete. She might be my favorite customer, which I suppose is an easy decision to make. Excellent taste in music plays drums, sarcastic as hell. That’s the customer trifecta. Jackpot. 

 

I start  Here Comes a Regular by The Replacements on the stereo system, wait a little bit to get to the right moment, then step out of my office, singing loudly. 

 

“ _ And everybody wants to be special here _

_ They call your name out loud and clear _

_ Here comes a regular, call out your name _

_ Here comes a regular, am I the only one here today?” _

 

Her head turns, and a wide grin graces her face. Mission accomplished.

 

“Hey there, Drums.”

“Hey, hey, Haught Water Music. Looks like Rosita had to drag your body out of the back just to come see lil ole me, huh?” 

“Two Hot Water Music references in one sentence. Nice work… for a drummer.”

“You wound me, Haught.”

“Oh, I’d never. Lookin’ for anything in particular?”

“Mostly just someone to talk shit with. Oh, and the new Brandi Carlile.”

“Carlile, huh? Didn’t know you were such a softie.”

“Oh, please. If either of us is soft, it’s you. You’ve been soft on that Professor girl for  _ years _ .”

 

**Record scratch.**

 

I feel myself physically step back, hands stuffing themselves in my pockets, eyes suddenly dropping to the floor. I say nothing as I turn and walk wobbly to the new release section and pick up,  By The Way, I Forgive You . 

 

As I quietly deliver the CD to its new owner, I think the only lines I remember:

_ “Because your eggshells and your right statements  _

_ And your weaponized words, are paper tigers now _

_ Oh, your constant overthinking, and your secretive drinking _

_ Are making you more and more alone” _

 

“Haught-”

“I’m fine, Drums. Just another idiot with a crush. I, uh… Ros will ring you out. Jer, will you close up today? I’m gonna grab Wrig and head home, not feeling well. I’ll see you... later.”

 

I can hear Meg and Jeremy call my name, but I ignore their desperation. I grab my coat out of my office, leash up Wrigley, and leave as quickly as I can without busting into an all-out run. 

 

Once I’m out on the cracked pavement, I can almost breathe again. I gulp down as much air as I can take in, letting the sharp cold burn my lungs. It’s the closest I can get to the burn of a long inhale of my preferred menthol cigarettes. Waverly hates it when I smoke. 

 

_ Waverly.  _

 

I pull my coat a little tighter, forcing my shaky hands to drag the zipper up before I look down at Wrigley for a moment. 

 

“Lead the way, buddy.”

 

I don’t remember a single second of the walk home. I only remember shutting the door to my apartment, sliding down to the floor, and letting everything go. 

 

\----------------

 

_ “But, it’s too late... _

[ _ It's too late _ ](https://genius.com/Ben-folds-late-lyrics#note-11519811) _ , don't you know _

_ It's been too late, for a long time” _

 

Ben Folds croons through my speakers as I lay in bed, tossing a baseball aimlessly. I can’t feel anything, not right now. I should’ve felt the sudden rush of pain when I missed catching the baseball earlier and hit my nose. That was four songs ago. 

My brain feels…

I feel… 

 

My mind is consumed by Waverly. She didn’t do anything wrong. I honestly think she’s incapable of hurting another living thing. It’s more… me. I want her. I want my chance. I’ve hopelessly hoped for my shot at making her happy for years, but I’ve never said a word. It just never felt like the right time, like I was the right person. 

 

A key fumbles in the front door and the wood makes contact with the wall in the next room. I sigh, confrontation time is looming. I track the footsteps, knowing they’re closing in. I’m just waiting for the yelling. My bedroom door swings open more gently than expected. I don’t even look at the door, just start talking, spilling my gut to my roommate.

 

“Hey, Ros. Listen, I-”

“Hey.”

 

My head snaps, and I miss the baseball. It thuds off the corner of my eye socket and rolls to a stop atop my comforter. Waverly is standing sheepishly, hovering in the doorway, waiting. 

 

“H-hi. What are you doing here? Actually, I probably know the answer to that. Rosita or-”

“Jeremy. He said you didn’t open the store today. You were there, but everything was dark. They opened it when they came in, at two.” 

 

Waverly moves, taking a seat beside me on the still unmade bed. She touches the tender spot where baseball made contact, her eyes so soft, they’re barely real. 

 

“Cole, you opened the store the day your dad died, and the day after that. You found a way to get the place opened up when you broke your leg on the walk to work. You’ve worked with the flu, three broken ribs, even when that really short girl from your Music Industry class broke your heart. What happened today? Why did you just… sit there in the dark?”

 

I can’t form words. Do I even want to? Can I admit why I sat in the dark all day? 

 

The song changes to  Don’t Want to Know If You Are Lonely by Hüsker Dü. My heart punches my ribcage and steals my breath for a moment. It’s too honest, too real for the moment, but I can’t change it. I’m afraid if I change the song, Waverly will  _ know _ . Somehow. 

 

_ “I'm curious to know exactly how you are _

_ I keep my distance, but that distance is too far _

_ It reassures me just to know that you're okay _

_ But I don't want you to go on needing me this way _

_ And I don't want to know if you are lonely _

_ Don't want to know if you are less than lonely” _

 

“Cole, you can talk to me. You can tell me anything. What happened today?”

 

My hands won’t stop shaking. I can feel sweat start to form between my shoulder blades. It drips down onto the upright piano on my back, cooling the blazing fire of my tattoo. Too bad sweating like a nervous idiot does absolutely nothing to calm or cool me. Waverly’s eyes are so gentle, carefully pleading for me to say something. Still, I can’t quite form the words. There’s no poetry left in me. 

 

“I, uh... I mean, I... you.”

“Me?”

“...you. It- it’s always you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. It's going to get better, fair reader. Just stay with me for a little while longer. 
> 
> Song inspiration for Chapter 3: Our Song by The Spill Canvas
> 
> Feel free to let me have it in the comments. You can find me on Twitter @iwaseliteonce if you wish to yell more specifically via my feed or DM's.


	4. Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to follow along in the playlist, please start with Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve) by Buzzcocks. Playlist link: http://spoti.fi/2nWhcIE

“I can't see much of the future

Unless we find out what's to blame, what a shame

And we won't be together much longer

Unless we realize that we are the same”

Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve) by Buzzcocks

  
  


I can taste blood. It’s everywhere; in my mouth, metallic and tangy. Moving between my ears, pounding and crashing like the ocean waves smash into rocks. I can taste it, but I can’t taste the words that need to pour from my mouth. 

 

You have to say something, Haught. ANYTHING!

 

“Cole? I don’t understand. What’s always me?”

"I, uh. Fuck. I…”

 

Everything tastes like blood, and dirt, and  _ stupid _ . So much stupid, I could drown in it. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I should’ve told Waverly I’m fine, that I overreacted, that it meant absolutely nothing. 

 

How do I salvage this? Do I tell Waverly the truth? I think I have to. It might be my only chance. 

 

I raise my gaze from my shaking, sweaty hands, and force my eyes to focus. I make myself look Waverly right in the eye. I’m going to say this and make her see I mean it. Even if I stutter like an idiot the whole time.

 

“I-I like you, Waverly. I have for… fuck, for an obscene amount of time. As long as I’ve… too long. And I didn't say anything, because-because I'm scared, I guess? No, I know I’m scared. I'm scared shitless, actually. You terrify me, a-and I like it. I really like it. I like it, and I like you."

 

My mouth is bone dry now. The taste of blood, of metal, is gone. I feel that painful pins and needles tingle take over my hands, my legs, my face. I’m fighting the inherent urge to run, to get out of here, to sprint as fast as possible.

 

I don’t think I could run anyway, even if I wanted to. Everything, every part of me, is going numb.

 

Waverly is quiet. Quieter than she’s ever been. She’s searching my face, my eyes, for an answer. Like, she’s making sure I’m not joking. She’s looking for something, and I don’t know what it is. I can only hope it’s the truth. That’s all I have to offer her. 

 

Her mouth moves, it opens and closes. There aren’t words coming through, it’s just the movement of her jaw, the flex of the muscle there. It’s distracting, and heart-shattering.

 

I can’t breathe. Is this worse than laughter, than an instant negative response? Because it feels worse.

 

Her eyes drop to her fidgeting hands, fingers moving, lacing and unlacing. She fights her own jaw, her own mouth. Then, the words come.

 

Correction- word.

 

"Oh."

  
  
**Record scratch.**

 

“O-oh?” 

 

FUCK. 

 

I’m moving before I can even process my body’s automatic response. I’m pacing, trying to convince my feet to do something, to run, to leave, instead of burning a hole in the floor. I can hear the Buzzcocks singing on a loop in my head.

 

_ “Ever fallen in love with someone _

_ Ever fallen in love, in love with someone _

_ Ever fallen in love, in love with someone _

_ You shouldn't've fallen in love with?” _

 

_ Yes.  _

 

Waverly is silent again and the taste of blood is back. Only this time, it’s real- I’ve bitten a hole into the inside of my lip. The metallic taste is coating my tongue, and threatening to spill from my nerve-tightened lips.

 

“Cole, don’t. I- we should- sit down, please. We can talk about this. We should talk.”

 

_ We should talk.  _ Shit. 

 

My shoulders slump. I gulp down the fresh blood, and awkwardly stare at my shoes. I should get new Converse. There’s a hole in the side of my right one. I’m going to need my Cons in good shape if I’m going to bolt, and never come back. I wonder who will take care of Wrigley, of my store. Would anyone besides Waverly even notice?

 

Would Waverly even  _ care _ ?

 

“Cole, don’t. I know you. I know what you’re thinking, an- and, you can’t. Sit. Sit, and we can talk about this. Please.”

 

She’s pleading, but all I hear are Buzzcocks lyrics, over and over. They’re stuck in my head, like a broken record I never wanted to spin. I can feel my hands shove themselves into my pockets. My eyes won’t lift, instead staying locked onto the new hole in my shoe.

 

“It’s fine, Wave. I mean, I’d never expected you t-to like me. You’re better than that. I’m a jerk, an asshole, a loser. You’re- it’s fine. I don’t even know why I said it, what I expected. You don’t have to… I don’t expect you to like me back. It’s… fine.”

“Cole-”

“Can you just, go? Please? I can’t- I don’t-”

“No. Fuck! Cole, no. I’m not leaving. No.”

  
  
  


My head snaps up. Waverly  _ never _ curses. That’s my line, my bad habit. I’ve heard her curse maybe three times in over a decade. All because of self-inflicted, clumsy injuries. Only when she’s hurt, never because she’s angry. 

 

Fuck. I hurt her. 

 

“Wave, I don’t-”

“No. You said your part. It’s my turn,” Her hands are on my arms, gripping my biceps harder than I realized she could. Her eyes are almost wild, pleading. “Sit. Please, just sit and let me talk,  _ for fuck’s sake _ . Okay?”

 

I nod, hands still in white-knuckled fists in my pockets. I sit awkwardly, barely able to keep my ass on the unmade bed. I can’t look at her, not until her fingers graze my chin. She lifts so gently. I know I don’t deserve the touch. I don’t deserve it, but I let her. I always let her lead. 

 

Her eyes have softened from the slightly fiery hue they took on moments before, blaze slowly deteriorating to a hazel smolder. 

 

“Cole, I need you to actually listen to what I’m going to say, okay? I need you to just sit there and listen. No interjecting, no wounded puppy eyes. Can you do that?”

 

She smiles a little when I nod, chin still resting in her palm. 

 

“Good. So, you like me, huh?”

 

I can’t stop myself from nodding again. I want that smile to come back. Not that I could form words anyway. I just nod and wait. I brace myself for impact.

 

“You like me, and you decided to just wait to tell me for, what, 10 years?”

“Twelve,” I whimper out. Her eyes snap to mine, and darken for a moment. “Sorry.” 

“You’ve liked me for  _ twelve years _ , and you didn’t say anything. That’s not fair, Cole. You can’t just casually  _ sit _ on something like that for that long. I’ve dated people, you’ve… slept with people. I’ve slept in your bed, with you. Damnit, Cole- I slept in your bed  _ this week _ ! We’ve shared absolutely everything, every aspect of our lives, every milestone, for years. You’ve tortured yourself over me for  _ years _ . When all you actually needed to do was just  _ say something _ .”

 

Wait, what?

 

“You said that out loud.”

 

Fuck. 

 

“You could have told me, Cole. You can always tell me things. Anything. You know that. You know it, and you still hid this from me. We could’ve been... “

 

Her words drift away, and I can’t help but wonder. 

 

Has Waverly been hiding something, too?

Is she just trying to make me feel like less of an idiot, or is there actually something here?

Is she angry that I’ve never made a move?

 

Every possible thought about this, about her, is storming through my mind. My judgement is so clouded, so foggy. And the Buzzcocks lyrics, they won’t stop. They just keep playing in my head.

 

Looping.

Looping.

Looping.

 

I can’t do this. I can’t just sit here. She’s too quiet. The room is too quiet.

 

_ Why is my head so loud? _

 

What if she doesn’t want what I want?

 

What if?

What if?

What if?

 

The walls are closing in. I think my brain is overheating, or maybe it’s short-circuiting.

 

_ I can’t breathe. _

 

“Cole? I want to… can I take some time, think about all of this? Can I sleep on it? Maybe I come by tomorrow, and we can talk. Is that- would that be okay?”

 

I force my mouth to move. I make myself lie.

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

\----------------

 

_ “When the room is quiet _

_ The daylight almost gone _

_ It seems there's something I should know _

_ I ought to leave, but the rain, it never stops _

_ And I've no particular place to go” _

 

I don’t remember leaving my apartment. I barely recognize where I’m going, until I step in front of a moving car. The screech of tires takes the place of Japan singing in my ears, and drags my attention back out of my jumbled mind. I lift my hand indifferently, faking an apologetic wave. 

 

I don’t mean it. I’m being reckless. 

 

Right now, all I feel is  _ numb _ . I need to feel my lungs burn. Something needs to  _ hurt _ , to  _ ache _ . I need to feel this so deep, it’ll ripple through my bloodstream for days. 

 

I need the pain to carry. 

 

_ “Well, I'm feeling nervous _

_ And now, I find myself alone _

_ The simple life is no longer there _

_ Once I was so sure _

_ Not a doubt inside my mind _

_ It comes and goes, but leads nowhere” _

 

I need to make myself feel something. Anything. As long as it hurts. I need a drink, a cigarette, a swift punch in the face. I suppose I’ll have settle for darkness and my piano. 

 

Tomorrow, the real pain begins. 

 

_ “Just when I think I'm winning _

_ When I've broken every door _

_ The ghosts of my life grow wilder than before” _

 

Waverly’s my ghost. She’s wild and ever-present. I just hope I can survive her. 

 

\----------------

 

I don’t feel right until I’m in my  _ place _ , until I sit down at the piano. The old bench is far from comfortable, but this is the only place I feel at home. It’s the only place I feel like… me. Everything feels wrong, until the moment my fingers touch ivory. Then, the world melts a little. It’s melting, and fading into the background. 

 

There’s one problem- I can’t make the music come. It won’t leave my hands. I know so many songs, so many pieces of music, but I can’t make my hands  _ move _ . I can’t make the music fall from my fingertips, and onto the keys. 

 

I can’t do anything right. 

 

All I want to do is slam my hands down, to tear black and white keys away from wood, and scatter the jagged splinters across the room. It’s almost like I can’t remember how to play. I can’t remember how to make the music come. 

 

I can’t do anything right. 

 

It’s silent, unsettling and heavy. So heavy. The room feels wrong- too cavernously big, and too suffocatingly small , all at once. It’s like I don’t fit here anymore. The upright piano, the alphabetized records, the wall of posters, the unplayed guitar; they all fit. I don’t fit, though. This room is no longer my home. It’s no longer my  _ place.  _

 

I feel like I don’t have a place anymore. 

 

I shutter out a breath and taste salt instantly. No. No. No!  _ This is my place!  _ It  _ has _ to be right here. I have to be right, to be okay, to be safe. I fight and scratch. I struggle and dig. I need to. I have to. 

 

Suddenly, the music is back. My hands move, the notes carry, but my voice is gone. Music pours out of me. It keeps building and leading me until finally, I know the words. 

 

_ “Good times for a change _ __   
_ See, the luck I've had can make a good man turn bad _ __   
_ So please, please, please _ __   
_ Let me, let me, let me _ __   
_ Let me get what I want this time _ __   
__   
_ Haven't had a dream in a long time _ __   
_ See, the life I've had can make a good man bad _ __   
_ So for once in my life let me get what I want _ __   
_ Lord knows, it would be the first time _ _   
_ __ Lord knows, it would be the first time”

 

My hands stop when my voice cracks and fades. The air feels different. The entire room feels better, lighter somehow. I feel the weight on my chest release like a pressure valve has been loosened just enough. I finally feel okay again. 

 

“Wow.”

 

My head snaps up from staring at the keys. 

 

Is someone here? How did I not know someone followed me? No one knows about my place, not even-

 

“Waverly.”

 

I can’t look at her. I just can’t make myself turn and face her. Not now. Not after everything I said, everything I did. 

 

I can feel her cross the room. I know her eyes are scanning the walls and shelves, taking in everything she can about a room she never knew existed. She’ll be confused. She’s always known about my places before. The store, my apartment, an old music room. Not knowing about this, my sacred space, will hurt her. I’ve hurt her twice in one day. 

 

“I didn’t… I’m sorry. I just, I stayed for a minute after I left. You were outside so fast, I knew something was wrong. You were just accommodating me, Cole. You always do that. So, I followed you. I watched you step out in front of a car. You looked… You can’t  _ do _ things like that, Cole!”

 

Her hands drop and stay on my shoulder, and I become like stone. Every muscle in my body tightens in response. I squeeze my eyes closed, and try to focus on my breathing. 

 

I’m not sure I can survive Waverly touching me. I definitely won’t when she inevitably says no. 

 

No, I don’t feel the same way. 

No, I’ve never thought about you that way. 

No, I don’t love you. 

 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, voice cracking under the weight of forced words. 

“You better be. I can’t lose you, Cole. I won’t lose you. I refuse.”

“Okay.”

“Hey, can you look at me? Please.”

 

I drop my hands from the piano keys, straighten my posture, and turn to face her. My body isn’t ready for her to sit beside me on the narrow bench, to move just far enough to the right to make room. I’m not ready for her knees to graze mine, to make my turn into her. I’m not ready for her hands to gently slide their way from my shoulders to bracket my cheeks. 

 

She’s looking again, searching. Checking. Finding. Her eyes are so soft, yet so  _ hurt _ .

 

“Why didn’t you tell me, Cole? Why didn’t you tell me you liked me, for real?”

“I didn’t… I, um… I-I didn’t think you’d want to know. I guess I didn’t think it’d matter to you. My feelings can’t control yours. I can’t- I won’t force you to mold, to conform into my life, Wave. I never have, and I never will. You’re worth so much more than that. Than some ideal I carry around. You’re more than an idea, or-or a fantasy, or a wish. I don’t want to  _ make _ you care for me. Not that way.”

“Cole.”

 

The broken sound my name makes as it leaves her lips makes me  _ ache _ . Trent Reznor is singing in my head, and I let him take over.

 

_ “What have I become?  _

_ My sweetest friend _ _   
_ _ Everyone I know _

_ Ges away in the end _ _   
_ _ You could have it all _

_ My empire of dirt _ _   
_ _ I will let you down _

_ I will make you hurt” _

 

The words take over, and blossom, and grow in my mind. They’re what I deserve. They’re what I’m doing to Waverly. I can’t make Waverly hurt. I refuse. 

 

“Wav-”

“I just wish you’d told me, Cole. We could have talked about it years ago. We could have tried.”

 

What?

 

“You said that out loud, too.”

 

Fuck.

 

“I’m serious, Cole. We could have tried. We could already be trying.”

“Y- you’re joking, right? This is a joke. It’s not- this can’t be eal.”

“I’m not joking, Cole. I’d never joke about something like that, about feelings. I like you, too. I just… I didn’t know what to do with it?”

“Yo-you like me? Are you… you’re sure?”

“Am I sure? Of course I’m sure! I like you, and I think we should do something about it.”

“I’m… I’m living a Descendents song right now.”

“I just told you that I like you back, and your first thought is a punk song?”

 

I nod shyly, and Waverly laughs. Her head drops to my shoulder, and she leans into me. I smile, and wrap my arm around her, gently pulling her closer. She seems to respond, nuzzling into the touch, and smiling that smile that makes her eyes into crescent moons. 

 

It’s beautiful. It’s…  _ Waverly.  _

 

Her hand takes hold of mine, turning it palm side up. I can’t hide the grin that escapes as she begins to restlessly play with my fingers.

 

She’s here. She’s right here, in my place. It actually feels like my  _ place _ again.

 

“Are you gonna tell me which song?”

“I’m The One. It starts out with ‘I’m the one, I've been here for you all along’. I think it might be true. I think that I’m-”

“Oh, so you’ve got a big ego on you all of a sudden, huh? One minute, you’re afraid to tell me you like me, and the next, you’re calling yourself The One. ”

“I mean, not like that. I just… I didn’t think this would ever happen. I figured I’d never have the guts to tell you on my own. I’d either tell you by accident, or just never say it. Plus, everything is a song, Wave. Everything. You know that.”

 

She giggles again, and I can feel the air leave her lungs. It tickles my neck, and I shiver. An honest to god shiver.

 

I’m  _ so totally fucked. _

 

“So, what do we do next, hmm? What song is playing in your head?”

“Something Changed by Pulp.”

“Wow, immediate answer. Any particular reason why?”

“Mhm. How about, instead of telling you about it, I just… play it?”

“I’d really like that.”

 

Waverly seems to expect that I’ll stand, and pull a record from the shelves. That I’ll turn on the sound system, find the right groove, and play her a song. But, that’s for losers and underachievers. I have wooing to do. So, instead, I nudge her and guide her to turn around on the piano bench with me. The fear is gone, replaced by warmth, by hope. My hands move. They find the right keys, and the music comes. 

 

_ “I wrote this song two hours before we met _

_ I didn't know your name or what you looked like yet _

_ Oh I could have stayed at home and gone to bed _

_ I could have gone to see a film instead _

_ You might have changed your mind and seen your friends  _

_ Life could have been very different, but then _

_ Something changed _

 

_ Do you believe that there's someone up above? _

_ And does he have a timetable directing acts of love? _

_ Why did I write this song on that one day? _

_ Why did you touch my hand and softly say _

_ Stop asking questions that don't matter anyway? _

_ Just give us a kiss to celebrate here today _

_ Something changed _

 

_ When we woke up that morning _

_ We had no way of knowing _

_ That in a matter of hours we'd change the way we were going _

_ Where would I be now? _

_ Where would I be now if we never met? _

_ Would I be singing this song to someone else instead? _

_ I don't know, but like you just said _

_ Something changed” _

 

\----------------

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Inspiration for Chapter 4: Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve) by Buzzcocks
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to comment below, and let me know what you're thinking. You can also find me on Twitter at @iwaseliteonce.


	5. Supernova

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotify Playlist Link: http://spoti.fi/2nWhcIE
> 
> If you'd like to follow along with the chapter, please start with Supernova by Liz Phair.

 

_“I have looked all over the place_

_But you have got my favorite face_

_Your eyelashes sparkle like gilded grass_

_And your lips are sweet and slippery_

_Like a cherub's bare wet ass”_

_(Supernova- Liz Phair)_

  


It feels so easy, all of it, everything. Too easy.

 

I’m not the kind of person who swoons, who softens and goes quiet, who falls. Well, I wasn’t before. Waverly changes things. She makes it seem so simple to be soft, to be calm, to be… happy.

 

 _Happy._ Feeling happy, being happy, it’s something totally new. Jesus, even the word happy tastes funny in my mouth. It makes my tongue feel heavy, makes the inside of my cheeks taste metallic. It still feels, still tastes raw, like regrown skin after a bone deep burn. Still sensitive and raw and so close to the surface.

 

But it’s worth it. Of course it is. I mean, it’s Waverly. She’s worth a little rawness.

 

(Right?)

 

No, Haught. You stop it right now. It’s worth it. _She’s worth it._

 

I Caught Fire by The Used plays overhead, a song that rarely makes the rotation in my mental catalog. The whole day feels different, everything around me does. Hell, I think I might even be singing along. Me, singing-- that’s like the melodious soprano of Snow White cheerfully singing a sweet harmony with cartoon bluebirds and baby deer in my universe. It almost feels wrong, but somehow, it’s not.

 

“Jesus, Haught, you’re whistling. Did someone die?”

 

Shit, Rosita’s here. She’s here, and she’s noticed that I’ve suddenly transformed into a Disney animated, lovestruck dork in an imaginary pretty blue dress.

 

“No one died, Ros. Everything’s pretty great, actually.”

“I don’t think I believe you. Something happened. You’re practically perky. You don’t do perky.”

“I wouldn’t say perky, just… happy, I guess.”

“You? Nicole Haught, happy? Seriously, who died? Was it that guy from Nickelback? Did some plastic pop star admit they lip sync, or that they didn’t write any of their songs?”

“No, nothin’ like that. It’s more related to Wav-”

“Hey.”

 

Waverly.

 

Fuck. She looks… _fuck_.

 

“Wa-wave. H-hey.”

“Earp, perfect! Any idea what the hell happened to make Haught so… _smiley_? It’s kinda scary. Forgot she knew how to do that.”

“Hmm, not sure,” Waverly responds, a slow grin spreading across her lips. “Did something happen, Nic?”

“I, uh… well, I mean, i-it’s just that-”

“She’s fucking speechless! You gotta tell me what happened, Haught. Did you book Liz Phair to play an in-store or something?”

“Don’t _ever_ tease me about Liz Phair. Not. Funny.”

 

My eyes drift back to Waverly, and everything softens. I become pancake batter the second our eyes meet.

 

“Everything’s good, really good.”

 

I gulp as Waverly smiles at me. It’s different somehow, like she’s seeing me for the first time. Everything feels so different now. Fresh, better, sunny. Fucking sunny with a chance of nothing terrible.

 

My god, am I going soft? Damnit, I’m totally soft. I feel like the Punk Rock Princess Something Corporate sang about so often during my teenage emo phase.

 

Am I required to buy a Christina Aguilera record, on vinyl, just because I like it?

 

Who have I become? I’m so… malleable now, and it only took one kiss. One really, _really_ good kiss. Damn good. So fucking good.

 

It’s finally happened then. I’m a noticeably soft, stupid, little puppy for Waverly Earp.

 

\----------------

 

Waverly’s hand slides down my spine, and my brain plays a record scratch. It’s nails on a chalkboard painful to hear the proverbial needle dig a mark into a soft groove on the gray matter inside my skull. That’s definitely gonna leave a mark I can’t just magically buff out. I can feel the graze, too soft, too delicate for my taste, as she moves her fingers near-painfully along the back of my faded black  Pixies tee shirt. The smile she wears, I swear I can feel it before I actually have a chance to see it. She’s here, right here, all close and warm and Waverly.

 

“Cole, can you help me find a record?”

 

Hottest question ever, from the hottest girl ever. I can die here. I’ll die fucking happy, right here in the moment.

 

“Um, ye-yeah. Sure. What, uh, what are ya lookin’ for?”

“Different Class by Pulp. That’s the record Something Changed is on, right?”

 

She’s trying to kill me, has to be. She wants to buy a record, just because I played a song from it, for her.

Wait, no, there’s so much more to it than that. Waverly researched the song I sang, found the album title, then waltzed merrily downtown after class to me, just so she could ask me about it, and watch me lose my mind.

 

(Damn, she’s good.)

 

“I think I’ve got it. C’mere.”

 

Aaaaand, now I can’t control my hands. My fingers interlock with Waverly’s and hold tight. I’m leading her to the right section, to the correct, alphabetical by artist location for the Pulp record. I only let go, so I can pull the pristine vinyl and its wedding photo album cover from the proper place, then turn to take my first full look at Waverly in the harsh fluorescent light of my store.

 

She’s a walking version of Pencil Skirt. Well, not exactly, but it feels that way. Purposeful. She looks this good on purpose, I know she does. I wonder if she looks good for me.  

 

For someone constantly referred to as small and delicate, her legs looks miles long and beyond perfect to me. She’s too much. Everything is too much.

 

Fuck.

 

“Cole.”

“Sorry, S-sorry. It’s just, I guess... I don’t know how I’m supposed t-to interact with you now? Do I just smile like an idiot w-with my hands in my pockets? Can I hug you? Should I shake your hand like we’re just friends ? Am I allowed to, um, kiss you?”

 

Her smile is too much. It’s wide and warm. It’s sunshine-filled sky after days of only overcast and gray. It’s damn near perfect. It feels too hot to look at, like I’m standing too close to an open flame, right in the middle of my store. It feels a little like staring at the sun, like I’m going full Icarus, trying to fly closer and closer to the center of the universe as I know it.

 

Or maybe that’s just Waverly.

“Well, that all depends. What do you want to do when you see me, Cole?”

 

Gulp.

 

“I, uh, well, I mean, I-”

“Hey, Cole? Nothing really big’s changed between us. We’re still the same people we were yesterday. We’re in the same city, the store’s the same. We just, we’re living that Pulp song now- something’s changed. I like to think it’s something good.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Cole, did you ask if you could kiss me, because you want to kiss me?”

 

I can’t speak. All possible comprehendable words have evaporated in my mouth. My tongue is suddenly all dry and cottony. It’s cotton candy dry between my teeth, but without the sugar to make things sweeter, better.

 

It’s melt in your mouth Sahara desert sand.

 

I’ve lost the ability to speak because of a girl. I’m a total pop song cliche. Next thing you know, I’ll be singing Dashboard Confessional at the top of my lungs, voice scratchy, eyes watering, heart pounding out of time with the song I publicly pretend I don’t know.

 

Oh god, it’s worse. I’m turning into an emo kid.

 

I nod gently, and Waverly steps closer. She takes the record from my hands, places it atop the correct alphabetical P section (thank god), and stops my auto-loaded complaint of unworthiness with a sharp, raised eyebrow. Her hands slide, they move, drag really, until they’re resting atop my shoulders. She shifts and leans, and I forget how to function. Her eyes lock onto mine, so close… and she waits. She asks without words.

 

(Oh, shit.)

 

I nod, barely, and wonder if she’s noticed the movement. She does, moving soundlessly up onto her tip toes with a calm purpose. She ascends, moving closer and closer to my lips, and I’ll be damned if Hands Down doesn’t start blaring inside my skull. Volume level 11/10.

 

 _“_ [ _My hopes are so high that your kiss might kill me_ ](https://genius.com/Dashboard-confessional-hands-down-lyrics#note-1969462)

[ _So won't you kill me, so I die happy?_ ](https://genius.com/Dashboard-confessional-hands-down-lyrics#note-1969462) _”_

 

She does. She kisses me in the English rock section of Complete Music / Music Complete like it’s the most natural, completely expected, excitedly anticipated action on the planet. She converts a noun, a thing, into an action.

 

She kisses me, and all I can hear is Dashboard fucking Confessional. On loop.

 

_“Hands down, this is the best day I can_

_Ever remember, always remember…”_

 

Shit. I’m fucking emo now. Damnit, Waverly.

 

\----------------

 

“OH MY GOD! Jeremy, it happened! Haught scored Waverly!”

“Yes! You owe me a hundred bucks!”

 

Waverly giggles into my mouth, and I can honestly, physically feel myself melt into an indistinguishable liquid at her feet.

 

Total emo kid move on my part. This is my life now.

 

“She’s right, you know. You finally landed me, huh?”

 

I totally did.

 

“Mhm, you did.” her hands drop, along with her bottom lip. Pouting. Why is she pouting. “Listen, Cole, I gotta go. Call me tonight, yeah?”

“Yeah! I mean, yeah. Mhm, yup, I can- I can do that.”

“Such a dork. I’ll see you later.”

“Mhm.”

My hands fall to my sides as Waverly steps away, turning supermodel slow. Her hips shake a little more as she puts on a far from subtle show for me as she departs and seemingly floats out of the store. I stand, feet turned cement, as she leaves. My jaw hurts from dropping open and hanging so precariously from its usual location.

 

Damn. Good work, Haught.

  


\----------------

 

My hands are idle, and it’s slowly killing me.

 

The way the ancient, burned out neon clock on the wall is ticking louder and louder in my skull, it’s killing me. I notice there’s no music, just the repetitive sound of a record skipping overhead.

 

I might be losing grip on my sanity. I’m fighting to keep my stupid idle hands out of my pockets, out of the cash drawer, out of a stack of future orders and endless paperwork. I fight to keep them on the stack of records that need to go in the proper places.

 

I need to work, to entertain my hands and mind, or I’ll chew a hole through my cheek.

 

Pathetic. A few hours without Waverly in the store, and I’m falling apart. Everything is loud and idle and dull, loud and idle and dull, loud and idle and-

 

Enough.

 

I start a playlist from my phone to stop the skipping,

the skipping,

the skipping.

 

The quiet of the store has put my brain into overdrive, evaluating and analyzing. Painstaking, continuous, overkill kind of thoughts.

I think I’m close to throwing a crazy long monologue no one will ever hear out into the ether. Yup, here it is.

 

Opening a record store really isn’t that fucking hard. It’s not that difficult to put things on a shelf, to add bright green or red stickers to the outer plastic CD covers, to protect precious vinyl with plastic sleeves. All that bullshit, it’s pretty easy.

 

It’s not really that complicated to stick a key in a lock at the beginning of every day, to turn on bright fluorescent lights, to pull the chain on the rainbow-colored open sign, so it flashes continuously and attracts passing eyes. Pretty straight, or gay, forward.

 

What is difficult? Honestly, it’s keeping people interested. No one really wants to buy records anymore. Some do, I suppose- collectors, hipsters, elitists like me. But the rest of the population, they don’t care. They don’t like vinyl or CDs. Hell, kids nowadays don’t even know what a fucking tape is. They want to buy everything online, to avoid dealing with people like me, to have it right there on their iPhones instantly. If it doesn’t magically appear, if there’s no instant gratification, then who then fuck cares?

 

I the fuck care.

 

I want people to buy records. I want them to talk about music, about artists, about art on the Internet. I miss the goofy excitement of hanging spread open liner notes or cheesy album exclusive bonus posters on the wall, of storing the evidence of my beloved music collection nice sleeves, so I can keep them forever.

 

I want people to buy music again, really buy music. The kind of buying that actually pays the musician, the band, the producer. Not the kind of purchase that only benefits somee label that thinks they’re special or worthy, not the kind that only goes to fucking Spotify. I miss when people bought records, tangibly; when you went to place and got your hands on something you craved, and aimed to avoid getting oily fingerprints on the classic cover. I miss removing the plastic and smelling the chemical hint of vinyl in the air for the first time. I wish someone other than me craved the feeling of taking a new vinyl record for its first spin, of hitting play on a beat-up CD player, of carefully inserting a new tape, Side A.

 

That’s what I want. Is that what I’m gonna get? No, but that’s what I fucking want.

 

I want music to be visceral again, not this bullshit, instant gratification, congratu-fuckin-lations on buying Taylor Swift madness.

 

I want music to be an experience again.  

 

\----------------

 

I’m calmer after getting the monologue to no one out of my system. Still not perfectly settled, but better. The sound of the door briefly reaches my ears, and my head turns. I know the face of the person who enters, but not the name.

 

They move with a purpose, checking three different sections with careful, scanning eyes. Rosita and Jeremy are long gone, it’s just me at this hour, forty-five minutes from closing. The person, the eyes, are looking for something specific. I refuse to allow myself to put on my normal elitist hat and become a questioning psychopath. Instead, I take a deeper breath, stuff my hands in my pockets, and approach with caution.

 

“Hey there. You look like you have something in mind. Can I help?”

“Hi! Yeah, actually, help would be good. Oh, but, first- is this a playlist of mostly random love songs performed by every badass woman you could think of? I could swear I’ve heard Veruca Salt, Hole, LP, in the last few minutes. Was that last one Marmozets? They’re still kind of new, but it’s so catchy. I think I’m right. Am I?”

 

I have to stop my head and neck from slow horror film swiveling, to prevent my head from puppy tilting, so I can better figure out who exactly has figured me out. I steel myself, ready for a full, hearty musical elitist impact from a stranger to shatter my ribcage. I hope I’m somehow ready for this person to take me down in my emotional elevator seventeen floors to the Evanescence sing-along or Fall Out Boy fan club membership level, which is basically one floor above dying.

 

(I think I’m screwed. I’m newly soft-hearted, and oh so screwed.)

 

“It, uh, yeah it is. You know Marmozets?”

“I suppose I do. I mean, it’s sort of my job to know. In my opinion anyway. I’d hope I’d know that voice anywhere, right? I think her name is… Becca, maybe? Great voice, solid band, catchy lyrics, good music. I like the record more than I figured I would, which is always a nice surprise.”

 

I realize I’m going to survive this conversation without having to turn in my music snob card. I don’t have to take the elevator to the 3 Doors Down ground floor. Thank… well, everything and everyone.

 

“Yeah, I’m a little new to them, too. It’s good though, surprisingly fucking good. I’m glad that- I’m sorry, I don’t thin-”

“Oh, shoot, names! Meredith, I’m Meredith. Hi. You’re the owner, right? Haught something, er, something Haught, rather. I’ve always wanted to pick your brain, see what records you’d recommend. Seems like now’s the time. I don’t have any competition tonight.”

 

Did I just make a friend without trying? Holy shit.

 

Hell yes.

 

“Yeah, I think it is. Have anything in mind?”

“Oh, no, not exactly. I just like to be where the CD’s and records are, you know? And the tapes. Digital just isn’t right, it’s not as fun as holding the thing. I like to hold the thing, hand over my money, see the art and liner notes, insert disc. Those were the good ole days.”

“They really were. Oh, and yeah, I’m Haught. Nicole, Haught, whichever really. Have I seen you in here before?”

“Probably, I only come here if I’m honest. I don’t like the other shops around. They don’t feel right, too new and shiny. Not enough vinyl or history. I come in when I can, peruse the new stuff, try to find a hidden gem or something on my must hear list in the sea of good music. Ha! I almost asked you if you’re here much. Of course you are, it’s your place.”

“It’s definitely my place, in more ways than one.”

 

I can feel a smile build and drag across my lips. I think I just made a friend, someone who has good taste and enough fuel to ignite the fire in their veins to begin the hunt for a good record. Someone who might even get me.

 

(Excellent.)

 

“Well, Meredith, let’s see what we can find for you. Any requirements? Must haves? Must avoids?”

“It just can’t suck, that’s really it. You know what’s good. Teach me your ways, Obi-Haught. Oh, if I can add a little rule, something newer would be good. My back catalog is pretty solid, so new’s better.”

“Got it, and gladly. Ever heard Gang of Youths?”

“I haven’t, no. I assume I’m about to?”

“Damn right you are. If you’re not in a hurry, that is.”

“Nope, I’ve got time.”

“Excellent, I have Go Farther in Darkness on vinyl, of course. If you don’t mind, I’ll play this one through the speaker system. I’ve got it on my phone, so I can skip around a bit.”

“Sounds good, Haught. Thanks.”

“Anytime, Meredith. Anytime.”

\---------------

 

When the doors finally close, when the light go out and the key’s been turned, the workday is finally over. When the music stops playing overhead, I go quiet, too. I don’t want to go home quite yet. The piano in the back of the store seems to be calling my name, and I can’t deny the urge to want to sit down and find my place again.

 

My brain moves inside my skull, shifting, whirring, grinding. Maybe things will spin out of control later, but not now. For now, I’ll find the white and black keys, and recenter myself. It’s the only way I know how.

 

You see, there’s this thing about music most people don’t understand. It’s one of those things I’ve fought to try and explain for a long time, but no one gives a shit about my opinion. I guess that’s what happens when you’re generally kind of an asshole.

 

The thing about music is, it lets you live a thousand lives. It lets you see a thousand perspectives, lets you be a thousand people. Even if you don’t sing in your car at top volume, or put on a concert in the shower, the music doesn’t change. It doesn’t give in to the world or society, to the politicians or the Communists. Music doesn’t change for you, not really. You can mold it into what you want it to be. You can turn it into something prettier, something that fits your life. You can turn it into your breakup or attempts at rebuilding, into your lifelong metamorphosis, but you’re not changing the actual song. You’re not changing the album. You’re not changing a damn thing. You’re just allowing yourself to understand it.

 

I’m surprised when Everybody’s Happy Nowadays falls from my fingertips. It’s somehow sadder than I expected. It’s not the sound of a crush turned romantic triumph, but a tale of trying to find the way you fit into a puzzle that’s warped and frowning when it should be perfect and smiling. I know the words, but feeling them, that’s different.

 

_“I was so tired of being upset_

_Always wanting something I never could get_

_Life's an illusion, love is a dream_

_But I don't know what it is_

_Everybody's happy nowadays_

_Everybody's happy nowadays”_

  


I’ve always wondered what it’s like to be understood like that, like a song.

I wonder if I’ll ever be known in that kind of way. Maybe Waverly understands me. Rosita and Jeremy, they get me sometimes. I guess there might be some others. Still, I wish someone knew me like a love song, that they know every cheesy, fluttery word. I wish someone knew me like a song about heartbreak or a popular movie soundtrack or a musical.

 

I’ve always wanted to know what it’d be like to be understood like that, so fundamentally. How would it feel to have someone listen and comprehend, to dig and research, to treat my words like song lyrics? I think deep down, I want to be analyzed and deciphered like all of the great songs are on messages boards and forums. I want someone to have to know everything, to want to understand everything, to be a Haughtologist. I want someone to strive to know how Song A got me to Point B. I’ve dreamt of being understood like that, but it just doesn’t happen. There aren’t people out there who care about normal people.

 

Musicians? Yes. Actors? Maybe. Writers? Yes.

A record store owner? No.

 

My hands move with my lips, playing a song I know too well, singing in a voice I don’t recognize. I wonder if I’m still me anymore.

 

_“Life's an illusion, love is the dream_

_But I don't know what it is_

_Everyone's saying things to me_

_But I know it's okay, okay”_

 

I slam my fist down on the keys and grit my teeth at the taste of metal grazing my tongue. Is it okay to be unknown, to be misunderstood? I don’t know. I do know that no one gives a fuck why I don’t like Coldplay. No one gives a shit about why Elliott Smith dying ruined my day, my week, maybe even my whole goddamned year. No one will ever really understand why Kurt Cobain putting a gun in his mouth obliterated things for me. No one will ever get why David Bowie’s death made my heart sink, and put me in a state of mourning more severe than the loss of any family member ever could.

 

No one will ever know why I opened a record store, why I gave it a name I fucking hate. No one is ever gonna get that.

 

No one will ever look at me the same way they look in awe at their favorite musician. I guess I sort of hope maybe Waverly will look at me like that one day, that she’ll care that much.

 

Honestly though, I even don’t think it’s possible. I don’t think I want her to know all of my fuck ups or how my brain works. I don’t want her to be a scholar when it comes to me.

 

I don’t want her to know how long I’ve been irritatingly, hopelessly, pitifully in love with her. I don’t think I want anyone to know that.

 

I don’t want anyone to know the days when I question everything I’ve ever done, the days when I just hope no one notices that I’m alive, that I’m… I just wish I was invisible. It’s not all the time. I don’t always want to be nothing, but sometimes, I do. Sometimes, I don’t want anyone to see me, to listen to me, to contact me. I don’t want anything.

 

I think above all, I don’t want Waverly to know everything. Because everything, knowing everything, understanding everything about me. It’s fucking suicide.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. I'm here, I'm back, I'm alive. 
> 
> I won't fill these notes with excuses or life updates. Instead, I'd like to say thank you to a few people. 
> 
> Thank you so much to my writer friends who motivated and encouraged me to post this. I honestly was terrified to share a new chapter, and needed my people to push me to make a comeback. Their AO3 usernames are: AGirlWithPicturesInHerMind, Delayne, loveisgravity. 
> 
> An equally important thank you to my wonderful beta reader, madhatt3r404. 
> 
> Finally, thank you to all of you for being here and taking the time to read my work. I appreciate each and every one of you. 
> 
> Feel free to comment or reach out on Twitter @iwaseliteonce. I'd really like to know what you think.


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